


Postcards

by PinstripesAndConverse



Category: City of Love: Paris, City of Love: Paris (Ubisoft) - Fandom
Genre: Although kind of not, F/M, Fills in the gap between Seasons 1 and 2, Mutually Clueless About Feelings, Not Actually Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 21:52:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11792205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinstripesAndConverse/pseuds/PinstripesAndConverse
Summary: The MC sends postcards of her travels to him with her musings, personal and professional.  Might read as slightly one-sided/unrequited/neither party is sure how the other truly feels.  Vincent/MC story, between Seasons 1 and 2, all from Vincent’s perspective.





	Postcards

He scowled as the guard accosted him, jerking his arm away and exiting the visiting room, but not before glancing over his shoulder to see her retreating figure.  He wasn’t surprised at her lack of belief but had hoped for better from her.  

She was agitated, more than he had seen her previously.  

There was a tan line where something important should have sat on her left hand.  He had seen it during his trial; a large, gaudy thing, impractical for an investigative journalist.  Raphael might as well have handcuffed her to him.

_ Another thing he’s terrible at _ , Vincent mused,  _ choices in jewelry and personal relationships _ .

Not that he was one to talk.  At least Raphael was  _ trying _ , at least he still held onto the notion of finding someone.

The bitter irony tasted worse than the food he had forced himself to eat that morning.  He had all of the money and power Paris had to offer him and yet love eluded him, left him with questioning motives and doubting anyone who attempted to get close to him.  The price he paid for his fortune and success.

All of which, he had begun to discover, were worthless without anyone to share them with.  Esteban made a wonderful canine companion; at least he couldn’t run off with his money or tarnish his name.  He had worked hard to erase traces of  _ her  _ attempt at doing so from every outlet possible and managed to keep the press quiet but even now, years later, the memory still managed to knot his stomach.  

A knot that had begun to unfurl when the American had stepped foot into his office, had sat beside him at the opera, seeing through his facade of innuendos and allusions.  It was rare someone had the gall to demand he speak plainly without fear rising to their eyes the second they did.  Fear had only crossed her face once during their first meetings, when he had used Katherine as leverage; her eyes were curious, always observing even without intending to.  Passionate.  

She reminded him of himself, before he had grown cautious, before the pain had taken root and twisted itself, pushing him to become who he was while pushing others away.

He knew her answers before she spoke them, even when she hesitated, seemingly considering his offers to betray Raphael.  She wouldn’t, even if she was tempted to; ethics were the backbone of her profession.  That night in the catacombs was the closest she had ever been to him and as much as he wished otherwise, he knew it had been a ruse.  It had to have been.  She had a wicked charm to her, when she knew how to use it properly, but he was better.  

As he walked through the corridors back to his cell, he closed his eyes, recalling that night.  Her eyes glistening in the flickering light from the torches as she spoke, the smell of her hair as she stepped forward to touch him, correcting his tie the way she had seen him do so many times.  He was not easily persuaded or seduced, but part of him was pleased to have momentarily wiped away the devastation about Raphael from her face; sadness didn't suit her.

He had added an element of orange blossom to his perfume, but the touch was more for his amusement than anything else.  No one else would know, unless she ever smelled it, but he wouldn’t want that for her.  She was no one’s thrall, nor would she ever let herself be.

The guard opened his cell door and Vincent entered before the other man could shove him inside.  This place was absolutely dreary-there was no way in seven hells he was sleeping on that…excuse of a mattress.  A change of scenery was certainly in order but he would have to bide his time, play the guards and the warden just so.  

He walked to the small window, the sill cold to the touch despite the sunlight trickling in, his eyes falling on the woman crossing the street.  She seemed to hesitate for a moment at the corner, glancing over her shoulder and back at the prison, her eyes seeking for something...someone.  

He knew she was considering his words.  She clearly hadn’t wanted to stay in Paris but he seriously doubted America would do her much better.  She was too...awake now to go back to whatever dreary state she had come from.

Vincent watched her turn and walk away.  She would be back.  

She always came back to him, in the end.

* * *

“Mail for you, Mr. Karm.”  

He was sitting at the wooden table, the second of his furniture requests obtained from his house (the first being the large bed to his right, with soft sheets and a proper mattress), reading the newspaper he had also requested.  He wondered if the warden was simply afraid to deny his requests because he was such a high-profile occupant.  

Vincent rose and walked to the guard, who held out a single piece of mail bearing several stamps and neat, if slightly cramped, handwriting.

Who would even bother to send him personal mail?

He thanked the guard and watched him walk back down the hall before looking at the postcard, bearing a picture of Roman bathhouse atop a natural spring.  Turning it over, he saw it was stamped from London, and then again for the customs entry, and then by Paris.  

She had gone to Bath, then.  He smirked at the humor of her visiting another Roman spring, one of the only bathhouses preserved from the Roman occupation of England.  Her handwriting was smooth, articulate, with a bit of flair on her y’s and g’s where her thoughts got ahead of her.  It occurred to him he had never seen her handwriting, something so personal and telling.  

_ As odd as it is, I feel as though you’re the only one who understands my decision.  Not to leave Paris, as much as you had urged me otherwise, but for returning the ring.  I never did thank you for not asking, as everyone else certainly did, and second-guessed me all the while.  I left to figure some things out, professionally and otherwise, and I can’t return until I do. _

_ I thought perhaps seeing something beyond the cityscape of Paris would make your time...bearable.   _

She had signed it with her initials, crammed into the far right corner of the card.  He reread it, partially wondering about the scratched out words after “decision”; it looked at though she had written “understands me” before second guessing herself.

_ Raphael certainly didn’t understand you, that much I can assure you _ , he thought.

He thumbed the edge of the card, a small smile crossing his lips as he shook his head.  

She could have at least left a forwarding address.

* * *

A year later, he had a small collection of pictures from Argentina, Venezuela, Egypt, Russia, Poland, Japan, and parts of the United States.  Vincent had long since stopped trying to find any sort of pattern in her travels but he followed the news as much as he was allowed, wondering if any stories coming from those countries were found by her.  Some she hinted at in her cards with a passing sentence while other locations were filled with personal musings.  Assembled, they created a patchwork global map where the words were more useful than the images.  

Her latest was from New York, a layover from returning home for a brief time, and simply read:  _ Funny how the people who say they’ll support you and your goals manage to twist everything.  It’s suffocating.  Much like this airport terminal _ .  The notes from her time back in her home country were brief, bitter, sad.  She mentioned nothing terribly personal but he was certain her family hadn’t been happy about her choosing herself and her career over being married to a successful entrepreneur.  He had found himself frowning at the emptiness of the back, anger prickling his skin at the knowledge that those closest to her considered a likely unhappy marriage to be more important than her work as a journalist. 

She had made sure he was stuck in this hellhole and yet even  _ he  _ considered it ridiculous.  Then again, he had done what she was doing now, focusing on her career, throwing herself into her work as she attempted to make sense of the world.  Distract herself long enough to forget she was in pain, forget she had given her heart out so quickly, so...foolishly.

They were more alike than she possibly realized.  

“Their opinions don’t matter, surely you realize that,” he murmured, placing the card with the rest she had sent him, in a hollowed out book he kept on his windowsill.  “Family or not.”

He paused in putting the book back, instead pulling the postcards out to sort through them and find one from a few months ago; she was in Argentina, her final trip before returning to America.  It was the one with the most writing, her letters smaller than usual to make room for her thoughts.

_ A year ago, to the day, as I write this, I entered your office not knowing what to expect, except perhaps a face to the threats.  You didn’t scare me then, and you don’t now, not that you're capable of much behind bars.  Your candor was a welcome change from the half-truths and omissions I was getting elsewhere, and I almost miss your dramatic allusions and innuendos.  Almost. _

_ But I do miss your penchant for truth.  At least I knew what I was up against right from the start.  Paris is not the only city filled with secrets and lies, it’s most of the world.  My job is to unveil them but I’m beginning to wonder if there’s a price I’m paying to myself for exposing the corruption of the world.   _

_ You must have better things to do than read these, surely.  I’m not even sure why I started but I can’t seem to bring myself to stop. _

She had stopped signing them months ago, the habit long established.  The guard who delivered the mail had asked him why someone would send postcards, it seemed like a cruel joke.  Vincent had simply glared at the man, who held up his hands in a defensive position before walking away to return to his other duties.  

Vincent’s eyes fell on the print of Esteban beside his bed, the only reminder of his canine companion in this disgusting place.  He missed his dog on days like today, when he found himself too lost in his own thoughts to find comfort in much else.  

_ I have a strong feeling you would like her,  _ he thought.   _ Very few people manage to best me, to astound me.   _

He felt something in his chest as he glanced over the last line again before putting the card into the book and snapping it shut, placing it down harder than he meant to.  He had always admired her for her abilities, her passion, even if it was preventing him from getting what he wanted.  

He had lost that part of himself, that ability to trust in those around him to help, to let others see his enthusiasm.  An echo of it came out that night she broke into his office, asking inane questions to get him to say his password, where his dreams showed themselves for just a moment in describing the romance of Heloise and Pierre.  

His passion went to controlling what he could; the image he projected, the words he used, because as long as he knew himself, no one could ever turn his own actions against him.

Even that failed, in the end.  His chest tightened again and he suddenly found his cell unbearable to be in, despite its pleasing (at least to him) aesthetic.  Straightening his tie, he opened the door and walked out of his cell, a privilege few were able to have without an escort, and continued walking until his mind was quiet.

* * *

Months passed by in a blur of monotony only broken by his sources giving him information and pictures of China, Cambodia, India, Turkey, Greece, Italy, and Morocco.  

He knew TJ had returned to Paris, although he wasn’t quite sure why.  Political campaigns were beginning; de Valois had plastered a billboard in his view of the city and Vincent was sick of looking at it.

He sneered when he first saw it go up.  He was an old family name, nothing more.    The man held dark secrets, yet presented himself as honest, a man of the people.  Politics disgusted him, a necessary evil when dealing with business when it came to policy implementation, but something he never dabbled in.  

_ My passport must rival yours by now _ , she wrote on her latest card from Morocco, about a three hour flight from Paris.   _ The nature of this method means I never get to know your replies but I’ve been having trouble getting in touch with people I should be able to talk to.  Kat, for instance.  Months with no reply from her is odd, worrying even.  But the thought of returning to France, even to just check on her, still unsettles me.  A deep part of me feels as if I disappointed so many of those I called friends but I know they would want me to do what’s best for me.   _

_ If I do come back, perhaps I’ll consider visiting.  For old times’ sake. _

Vincent raised an eyebrow.  Katherine Hong was never without words and wouldn’t just stop talking to a dear friend without reasonable cause.  She hadn’t stopped talking when his men had kidnapped her and he seriously doubted that had ever stopped.  He pulled out his phone, an object the guards no longer cared about him having, and sent a text to look into Katherine.  She hadn’t asked for his help but he hardly cared; he remembered her face at his admission of using the other woman as leverage, how much that friendship meant to her.  He was in a position to possibly do something, so do something he would.

Whispers had gotten stronger about the threat he warned the American about so long ago; more paintings stolen and replaced, bearing symbols of the Ten Plagues hidden in plain site.  He wasn’t sure what angered him more; precious artworks being forged and then altered for someone else’s goal and ruining the intrinsic and social value of the work, or that he was only able to do so much while in this is decrepit, tiny place.  

She would have to come back to Paris.  Eventually she would realize he was right.  And he would make himself indispensable when she did.

Vincent gazed out at the glowing city before him, forgetting the view was obstructed by iron bars as he traced his eyes over familiar buildings and silhouettes.  The wine he had opened was a bottle from his collection, one he had purchased with the intention of saving for a moment that never came, but its sweetness certainly matched tonight.

Inspector DuBois was a good cop, and like any good cop, he had learned to tell him about all incoming arrests.  Vincent wanted to know who was coming in, what kind of personality he would be dealing with.  

When the inspector had described an American woman, distraught, refusing to speak to authorities except for denials of the crime, he had to hide his surprise behind a smirk and an order to send her to him.  The expression faded from his face as soon as the inspector walked away.  

_ You’re no destroyer of life _ , he thought.  

Fear rooted itself in his stomach as he took another sip, awaiting her escorted arrival.  She had been devastated once before, by him, and he wasn’t sure if he could bear seeing it again.  He had warned her, told her terrible things would happen if she left.  She hadn’t listened and he hadn’t entirely expected her to, but he had wanted her to take his warning seriously.  

If he were someone else, he would rub salt in her wound by saying he had told her so.  He could never bring himself to hurt her in such a way, in the way others had with him, to do anything that would make her eyes glisten with tears and her proud posture shrink.  

“Sir,”  DuBois spoke, announcing his arrival before leaving the two of them in relative privacy, a perk of having the warden wrapped around his finger.  

Vincent was not prepared for the tear-stricken and broken expression on the woman before him and felt his heart almost shatter before a deep anger seated itself in his chest, one he would bide his time with.  He recovered quickly, finding his bearings in the dramatics he offered her when they first met.

_ It  _ is  _ good to see you again, although how I wish under different circumstances _ , he mused.

“Welcome back to my humble abode.”

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on Tumblr at toseetheworldinaworkofart and Wattpad under SweetVenomKiss.


End file.
